Halloween Redux
by Upeasterner
Summary: What was she thinking? Carolyn Muir substitutes for Schooner Bay's English teacher and makes an ill-advised writing assignment that haunts everyone in town.


The school day was over.

Students spilled into waiting buses, awkward freshmen and sophomores making mad dashes for the perfect seats. Carolyn sighed as she watched her high school juniors and seniors head for parked cars instead, their backpacks full of notes, journals and story ideas. Her creative writing class was a hit, even with several of the moronic football players. Last week, they'd staggered home under the weight of Herman Melville and his whale. This week's literary topic was a little less daunting: "The Scariest Halloween Ever." The due date was Halloween, just four days away.

Lame, thought Schooner Bay's resident writer and emergency substitute teacher. The assignment should have focused on Yankee folklore. But at 7:30 a.m. Monday morning, four cups of coffee from the teacher's lounge failed to rouse Mrs. Muir from her morning stupor. Make-up stunning. Outfit chic. Mind asleep. Standing in front of the class, stifling a yawn, she took a question from Mike Harding, the alarmingly alert captain of the debate team.

"Can you give us an idea of whether we should write stories focusing on Maine's seafaring heritage or invent some tall tales?" he asked. Folklore, Carolyn thought mechanically. Wait…Candy and Jonathan had similar assignments but this week, Miss Stoddard waived everything in favor of Halloween. A no-brainer, thought Carolyn. Easy for them, easy for me.

"Oh, let's take a break," she smiled, mentally warming to the idea. "Why should you have it any tougher this week than the rest of Schooner Bay? Everyone else is focusing on ghosts and ghoulies. Let's see what you can make up about your scariest Halloween ever. And please. No gore. Stop at missing heads or glaring red eyes. Try a little psychological nuance. Channel Edward Alan Poe. We'll read your stories aloud on Friday."

With that, she turned to write requirements on the board. If she'd been more alert – and more attentive that morning to Captain Gregg, who'd materialized in her bedroom at 5 a.m., cup of coffee in hand and words-of-warning on his lips – she might have overheard the wave of snickers which rolled instantly around the classroom. Instead it was 10 a.m., and she was four sips into another stale cup of coffee in the teacher's lounge before the inadvisability of such an assignment dawned slowly in her brain.

Four weeks had passed since Carolyn agreed to fill in for the school's regular English teacher, now caring for a sick grandchild in New Hampshire. Most Schooner Bay High teachers were slightly in awe of Mrs. Muir's looks, grooming and inarguable talent. Where she spent the night was another matter.

Carolyn had lived at Gull Cottage for only three months when, in desperation, Principal Dean phoned the town's only known writer, practically begging her to accept a short-term assignment as an emergency substitute teacher. He'd taught the class himself, but was ill-prepared to direct the next six weeks' of creative writing assignments. "Yes of course I can help," she agreed immediately, ignoring the sudden furrow in the Captain's brow. The extra income would be nice.

Principal Dean was glad to pay but he was well aware Mrs. Muir's assignment would raise big eyebrows with the school board. Every one in Schooner Bay harbored at least one opinion about the sanity of a young widow feckless enough to rent the area's most notorious home. Until she arrived, kids in tow, no one had spent a "full night" in Gull Cottage since 1948. His conscience began to bother him. What if Carolyn Muir didn't know what the gossips were saying? Students might think they could pull a good one over on her. Certainly they would entertain titillating possibilities. Morosely Principal Dean tapped the school's foremost battleaxe to help.

"For goodness' sake, Eleanor, you know what they will talk about," he supplicated over lunch in his office one day. "I don't want to hear one word out of anyone's lips about you-know-who or you-know-what."

"What, Edmond?" Eleanor Tempe replied rather drolly. "Please elaborate because I'm not sure I fully understand the nature of your concerns."

"For goodness sakes, you're a history teacher, don't make me beg," he whined as he ran his fingers through his thinning hair."

History teacher Eleanor Tempe wryly considered the assignment. She'd seen the young widow in town and idly thought she'd be just the thing for the obstreperous spirit that everyone assumed haunted Gull Cottage. She was unimpressed by Carolyn's beauty, but then Miss Tempe wore a wig that moved up and down when she scratched her head or parked pencils above her ear, revealing wispy gray hairs that never failed to mesmerize freshmen.

"Edmond, " she intoned, "Are you feeling guilty about throwing the young widow to our literary wolves?"

But Eleanor could not protect Carolyn from herself. Just 10 minutes after she'd scribbled seniors' assignment on the board, every student at the school was laughing about Carolyn Muir's creative writing assignment. "Hey, we don't even have to have to be creative," Eleanor overheard a senior joke. "We'll just dump several of the freshmen off at the cottage after dark tonight and write about what happens."

"Dear," Eleanor Tempe sighed as she intercepted Mrs. Muir during her 10 a.m. coffee break. "Do you realize what you've just done?"

"


End file.
